9 November 2010 - 2:30 AM My partner and I stood at the end of the ruined aisle; the dirt and dust on the floor clearly outlined the empty spot that his heavy desk had but recently occupied. All that remained of the work area was a rickety metal shelf and its contents, which we had to reunite with those of the now missing desk. I produced the temporal device from its holster. It was small and light, but potent. Frankly, it looked a lot like a cheap hot glue gun, except for the distinctive dish surrounding the front, and six small unlabelled buttons along the top left edge. Routinely, I initiated the procedure for time jump. The previous attempt had failed. I don’t know why. It took us a bit out of our way, but not to our specified temporal destination. I had known something was wrong immediately; the jump had happened too quickly. With a bit of inconvenient effort, we had returned to this origin and readied a second try. “Let’s make sure to not touch anything more than necessary,” I said to him. He dropped what he’d been holding, and we looked around at our immediate vicinity. The only thing we were touching now was the filthy debris-strewn tile floor upon which we were standing. To minimise the possibility of some enduring problem from last time, I cleared the device’s recent cache. It beeped twice to acknowledge. Now I had to set all the parameters again, starting with the objects to be transported. I clipped a static discharge band from the gun to the shelf. It was flimsy and loosely attached, but it was enough to create conduction between the two, and for the sake of our impending travel, that’s what was important. Meanwhile, he wedged a few loose documents into the shelf. “Okay, now…” I reached out and beckoned for his right hand with my left, and grabbed it. With my free hand, I carefully aimed the device at him, probably more carefully than necessary considering the short distance involved. I pulled the trigger gently to its first position. With another beep, a magenta wire-frame mesh outlined our forms briefly, blinking a few times before disappearing. In that short time span, I quickly verified that the lock had encompassed everything we needed – myself, my partner, the time gun, and the entirety of the large shelf beside us. Once safely assured, I released his grip. Someone rounded the corner of the aisle. He paid us no mind, nor we him. Sure, we were about to disappear through time before his eyes, but it didn’t matter; in a few moments, this present reality would no longer exist. Pacing slowly behind my partner, I hesitated, looking over everything once more in one final pre-departure check. Not only did I want this jump to be successful, I certainly didn’t want to leave anything important behind. I pressed the rightmost button on the top of the gun. “Destination: your work desk, 1955,” I announced officially. It was unnecessary, but this would be his first leap through time, so I wanted to play it up and build the anticipation. “Prepare for time jump.” I held the gun upward and looked around. I’d done this on countless occasions already, but I couldn’t help being slightly anxious each time. Without looking at the device, I smoothly pulled its trigger all the way back, holding it firmly in its furthest position. It emitted one final beep. One second passed. Nothing had happened. In the next second that followed, my mind began to race, as I started to look back at the gun. Did I forget something? Did I complete the procedure correctly? Is it working? Will we be sent to our proper destination this time, in both time and space? My rapid thoughts were interrupted by my partner’s sudden outburst. “Whoa, whoa,” he began to stammer, looking over himself. Then I knew it was working; I’d begun to feel it too. It had been some time, but there was no mistaking the unique sensation that this device’s time jumps produced. There was no turning back now; I let it the jump come as I watched our surroundings slowly fade to grey. Every square inch of my body – both inside and out – underwent a gradual increase of permeating apparent pressure, building steadily as the device charged. It was not at all comfortable, but certainly not unbearable. Although we were not moving, we had to work to retain our balance; this pressure must have also interfered with our vestibular system, yielding mild dizziness. All the while, a gentle hum that seemed to emanate from all directions grew more audible. I found myself chuckling; as strange and unpleasant as it was, I was pleased with the familiarity of the experience, and marvelled at the scientific wonder that it represented. More seconds passed, and the intense pressure continued to linger, like a painless charley horse all over. I knew it was almost done, and that at any moment it would all let up as we suddenly pop into our destination. However, the device seemed to hesitate. The intensity of the symptoms had levelled off, but still remained. That’s never happened before. Another second passed. I looked around the grey void curiously, as the hum droned steadily in my ears. Two seconds. “It is going to drop us off, right?” I thought to myself. Three seconds. “It should have stopped by now…” Four seconds. “Maybe it’s still buffering or something…?” Five seconds. Finally, relief came as the sensation disappeared, and I found myself in darkness. I knew something was wrong again, though, as there was a distinct lack of the signature loud pop that typically accompanies jump arrival, presumably due to that much of the local air being so suddenly displaced by our insertion. Unable to see or hear anything, I instead considered what I could feel. No more pressure, but a painless psychological ache from the experience still remained. I moved slightly, reinitialising my sense of touch. I was horizontal, lying on my side. I extended my hands and legs, and found that the surface was soft. I sat up. “Oh… It’s my bed,” I groaned, and fell backwards onto my pillow.